She loved to dance. She loved to let the throb of the music fill her mind until it was all that was left, to let her body move to its rhythm. It helped her stop thinking. She looked over at her partner with a smile. He danced well. He did everything well. And he was so beautiful; she still got a kick out of the envious glances from other women. Tall, well muscled, latin-black hair and smouldering brown eyes - exactly what she wanted. Exactly what she wanted because he was the complete opposite of... she pushed back the thought and concentrated hard on the music. No thinking. Dance. He looked up and flashed her a perfect smile. Dance and look at the pretty man smiling just for you. Dance and let it touch you.
His eyes wandered across the dance floor, scanning the other dancers, the people at the bar, ever watchful as a man in his position needed to be. He paused and a slight frown creased his perfect forehead. She looked quickly in the direction of his gaze. Nothing to see – a crowd of gyrating bodies, sweating in the Italian heat. But then... she felt her heart freeze in her chest. A sudden flash of platinum blond in the dimness, a hint of a slim body and a flowing black leather jacket, gone in a second among the crowd. She pressed her eyes shut and swallowed hard on the pain. She kept hoping she would get over this, that she'd stop seeing him everywhere, catching heart-rending half-glances across crowded rooms, in the street, in her dreams.
London had been the worst. There were reminders on every street corner – a word, a gesture, an accent that made her heart leap with hope despite herself. She'd mastered the hope, eventually. He'd gone and she'd accepted that – mostly. She'd had to, because too many days spent half-searching and nights broken by dreams of burning hands and falling walls were beginning to destroy her. So she'd worked hard on putting it behind her, and eventually Giles and Dawn had stopped whispering in corners and watching her every move with concern. Rome had been Giles' suggestion and he'd been right. No memories here, no links, fewer reminders. But occasionally, just occasionally...
When he looked back over at her the frown was gone and she forced her frozen features into a smile. When he suggested that they should maybe go somewhere else, find a little quiet space, she agreed readily. He took her arm and led her out of the room to the sound of a brawl starting in the background. The thought that he had always enjoyed a good fight surfaced in her treacherous brain.
Later, in the tastefully expensive hotel room he'd chosen – well, Andrew in the next room kind of killed the mood – she tried to lose herself in this perfect man with his perfect body and perfect technique. He played her like he played the piano, gentle fingers, perfect control, perfectly pitched passion, each note mastered. He knew exactly where to touch her, what to do, how to bring her to the climax her body craved, and didn't seem to notice, or at least to mind, her single-minded pursuit of oblivion. He was good - but he didn't really know her. He didn't really know the dark little secrets she held inside, couldn't bring her to the mind-numbing, shuddering heights that she had reached at someone else's hands. But he was good, so she had to be careful; she couldn't lose herself too much. It wouldn't do to cry out someone else's name.
Later still, resting against him, body relaxed and mind calmed, as he called her cara mia and spoke of love in purring Italian – she didn't believe him; whatever this was it wasn't love, she knew about love – she could pretend she was over everything, that the memories of fire and pain and the agony of loss were becoming bearable. That she could, maybe, find someone else who might rekindle the spark in her empty heart and touch her soul like he had. Maybe not yet, but someday. She sighed and kissed his perfectly sculpted chest. She was moving on.